


You And I Go Hard

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Communication Failure, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His boyfriend was standing there in front of him breaking apart and he couldn't fix it. He felt like very possibly the worst boyfriend in the entire world. </p>
<p>Courf and Jehan swerve into the communication breakdown lane during sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You And I Go Hard

                It was frantic and fast because Enjolras could only stay at the library for so long and it was nice to have your own apartment but that was an expense he wasn’t exactly comfortable with and Jehan hadn’t even finished undressing properly before Courfeyrac was pushing him back against the bed and sucking a line of kisses down the poet’s freckled chest and reaching for the lube. “No,” Jehan protested, his arms above his head, still twisted in his button down. “I’m ready; I did it before I came over, just please, _please_ , fuck me.”

                Courfeyrac reached down and traced Jehan’s fluttering hole with one finger, smiling at the feeling of the poet’s rim, already wet and stretched. “Impatient, were we?”

                “ _Yes_ ,” he breathed, flushing slightly as Courfeyrac scissored two fingers inside him immediately. “Come _on_ , Courf, I’m _ready_.”

                He pushed in slowly, relishing in the tight, velvet heat, and then began grinding his hips in quick, circular motions. Jehan’s head tipped back to hit the pillow as he thrashed weakly, a low string of whimpers escaping his throat. “Good?” Courfeyrac asked, slowing his pace. Jehan’s thin, bony hands fluttered inside his shirt as he nodded frantically. He trembled in the dark-haired student’s arms, vibrating in anticipation, before leaning up to kiss him desperately, deeply, teeth tearing at Courfeyrac’s mouth.

                Finally, he broke the kiss with a soft whine. “Courf, c’mon, _please,_ just….harder or… _something_.” 

                If he went any harder than he already was, he’d actually be _hurting_ Jehan, probably a lot, so he ignored the request and continued at the rapid pace he’d already set. Jehan gave an animalistic snarl and twisted up into him, back arching, jerking his arms within the shirt and trying to work his wrists free without being able to unbutton the tight cuffs. Courfeyrac immediately backed off and pulled out, pulled away, instincts kicking in. He would never hold anyone, especially not a ‘sexual partner’—God, he needed to stop using airquotes in his brain— against their will; he _couldn’t_.

                Instantly, he knew that his reaction was the wrong one, was a mistake when he saw fear and alarm telegraph across Jehan’s expressive face and pain fill his pale eyes. 

                He couldn’t do it, though. If he had, it would’ve made him feel like scum, like he was _punishing_ Jehan and he couldn’t do _that;_ Jehan hadn’t done anything wrong and Courfeyrac _loved_ him, for fuck’s sake, he wouldn’t have punished him even if he _had_. He backed away to the end of the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and looking at his boyfriend with shocked, wide eyes.

                With a soft huff, Jehan sat up and pulled at his shirt, finally freeing his trapped wrists. The two of them stared at one another across a mattress and didn’t say a word for a least a full minute. Jehan broke first and slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands as his long braid slithered over his shoulder with a soft _plop_. Courfeyrac clearly could see the minute trembling that worked its way across his shoulders and down his spine. It was a nauseating scene, and Courfeyrac could taste something sour welling up in the back of his throat. He felt utterly out of his depth, completely and totally helpless.

                He was watching Jehan break apart in front of him but there was nothing he could do to stop it, because the truth was that he couldn’t fix it, couldn’t give the physical comfort that they were both so inclined towards; he was _incapable_ of sex that rough, he couldn’t make it into a fight about rebuke and reprimand and come anywhere close to feeling any pleasure. He realized with a jolt that he wasn’t even hard anymore. His heart throbbed; he just wanted to somehow make his mess better, or make it so it hadn’t happened at all. 

                When Jehan finally looked up again, Courfeyrac was afraid he’d see anger—or worse, tears—but instead Jehan’s eyes were lifeless and flat and dull, closed off, all walls and sealed doors and barricades. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, the forced formality making the words sting even more, then swallowed and cleared his throat daintily. “I should not have asked you for that without discussing it properly first. I presumed too much, and was disrespectful of your feelings.” The thin hand with its pale-purple-polished nails that snaked past Courfeyrac to retrieve the floral-patterned skinny jeans was entirely steady and even though Courfeyrac scrutinized him carefully as he dressed, no single hint of emotion crossed the usually-lively face. Courfeyrac had no idea what the poet was feeling—something he was unaccustomed to—and that left him feeling even more helpless and incompetent than when he’d watched Jehan shake apart earlier. 

                Jehan picked up his shirt—hopelessly wrinkled and with the buttons on the cuffs coming loose from all the tugging—and stared down at it. He blinked slowly twice, his eyes sticking closed a moment too long, like opening them was something he had to consciously think about, and then looked at Courfeyrac, his eyes still blank and clear, like those of a doll. The bony hand holding tight to the shirt dropped to the poet’s side in a faint swish. “I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly, and left without bothering to put the shirt on.

                Courfeyrac slumped to the side until his face was buried in the pillow Jehan’s head had lain upon only minutes before and breathed in deeply the scent of the poet’s citrusy soap and the ever-present perfume of flowers that clung to his skin. As he tugged the covers back over the bed, a flash of turquoise protruding from underneath the mattress caught his eye and he realized that Jehan had left his underwear behind. He sat down hard in the center of his bed, hugged his pillow tight to his chest, and cried like a child, because what else was he supposed to do?

**Author's Note:**

> eeeeeey.


End file.
